Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
POPPY
The old man in front of me in the TSA line looks like he’s one question away from a nervous breakdown.
We’re not even to the front of the line yet.
He looks around nervously, leaning heavily on his wooden cane, and I pretend I don’t notice the deep lines of concern on his face. Instead, I fabricate my own with a worried frown.
“Why do TSA lines always trigger my guilt complex?” I ask him with a fake nervous laugh—fake because I fly all of the time and I got past my guilt complex in airports years ago.
(Exposure therapy really is the best antidote to anxiety.) “I’m always going through a mental checklist, yet somehow I still forget my ID until I’m staring the agent in the face. ”
His eyes tense, and I see him pat his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out his ID.
I continue as we take a step forward. “And all those questions about my bags! Last time when they asked if I was carrying anything for someone else, I launched into this whole explanation about how I bought a sweatshirt for my cousin, and they had to stop me. Turns out they were actually asking if a stranger in the airport gave me anything to carry.” I make my eyes wide. “It’s stressful!”
He huffs. “That’s why I don’t fly much.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say. “I fly a lot and still get nervous.”
“If you don’t have anything to hide, then you don’t need to get nervous,” he says, clearly not believing it himself.
“So when they ask if I have any dangerous materials in my luggage, I probably don’t need to mention my nail scissors?” I laugh. I’ve heard at least fifty people ask about theirs before.
He chuckles with me. “Last time I traveled, they asked if I packed my bags myself, and I told them my wife did it for me.”
I give him a big grin, but something in the way he says it keeps me from laughing. “Did she really pack for you? What a sweetheart.”
His gaze goes distant. “She was.”
And I’m officially two seconds from sobbing in the TSA line.
“I bet you made her happy,” I say, wrapping a hand tightly around the handle of my carryon.
My other hand tucks a strand of wavy light brown hair behind my ear—I’m still getting used to how short it is after my impulsive chop last night—and blink back the tears threatening to spill.
His eyes water and he nods. “Thank you.”
I keep blinking hard, fighting exhaustion on top of emotion. I was too busy replaying yesterday’s disaster to sleep last night, which led to me emailing my boss at two a.m. and then using my own nail scissors to hack off my hair into the long choppy bob I’m working with now.
I’m basically running on fumes and bad decisions.
“Next,” the TSA agent calls. My new friend steps up to the counter and hands the agent his ID and ticket. “Did you pack your bags yourself?”
“Yes,” I hear him say.
“Are you carrying anything for anyone else?” the agent asks.
“No,” he says confidently.
And my heart swells as I hear him answer each question without a hiccup.
This trip might have been a professional and personal disaster, but at least I was able to help this sweet old man.
A small good is still good, I tell myself.
Sure it is, a dark part of my mind answers. Just not as good as what you should have done. You know, instead of ruining people’s lives and blowing up your own.
When I get past the security checkpoint, I glance up at the Flight Information Display System and see my flight—Blue Horizon 1247—is currently on time. I have a layover in Denver, but no deplaning, so I’ll be back in Rochester tonight before dinner.
That’s a good thing.
Really.
I spot my new friend about ten yards ahead. He’s about to pass my gate when he stops and calls out to someone at my gate who’s standing in line to board (even though our plane isn’t boarding for another ten minutes).
“How you doin’ there, Coach?”
The man’s head whips around, and … oh. It’s a tall, very attractive man with two-day scruff, a chiseled jaw, and blond hair poking out of a light blue baseball cap.
Hello, handsome.
I never get in the boarding line before I absolutely have to, but I’m curious. About my sweet old friend, not his young hot one.
Obviously.
The younger man doesn’t quite smile at the older man, but his energy shifts from intense focus to a polite greeting.
“Good seeing you, Mr. Parkinson. Where you headed?”
“Virginia,” he says. “My son insisted. Won’t be the same without Nancy, but Matt bought the ticket, and I’m too cheap to waste it.”
The younger man gives a clipped smile. “I can respect that.”
“How’s the team gonna be this year? We ain’t losing the Fischer brothers, are we?”
The man shrugs. “That’s above my pay grade.”
“Well, keep winning, and I won’t have a quarrel with you, Fletch.”
“Thank you, sir. Have a good holiday.”
The two men shake hands, and then the older man spots me. His demeanor softens from tough to tender. He walks over to me and takes my hand, and this simple touch is like water to a dry sponge. I absorb every drop until it’s about to spill from my eyes. “Travel safely, girl,” he says.
I smile. “You too.”
The sweet old man lets go, and I watch him walk through the terminal until he gets lost in a sea of passengers.
When I turn back to my line, it’s to see the younger man—Fletch? What kind of name is that?—fixing a pair of dark blue eyes at me.
I blink in surprise, then smile.
He scowls and looks away.
Okay then. Definitely not interested in small talk. I should probably be offended, but I make a point of assuming the best. Mr. Parkinson called him ‘Coach,’ so maybe he’s just focused on something with his team. Or maybe he hates airports as much as my online friend Arrow does.
My hand is still warm from where my new friend held it. Touch is my love language, but it’s the thing I get the least of in my life. I live alone and travel—well, traveled—for work. I haven’t had a boyfriend in two years or even caught up with my old college roommate in months.
But I’m low maintenance, so that brief, sweet hand squeeze will keep my bucket full for a while. And for that, I’m grateful.
I debate sitting down now that I’m done eavesdropping, but I figure that will look weird, especially with the handsome, scowling man already having clocked me.
Meanwhile, the woman behind me keeps doing that thing in line where she inches her bag closer like she’s planning to slide ahead of me the second the gate agent starts scanning tickets. We’re not even moving, so I’m not sure if she thinks she’s being subtle or if she doesn’t care.
Funny thing is, if she asked to get in front of me, I’d jump to the back of the line just to make sure I’m not in her way. Helping people is sort of my thing.
You’d think a former true crime junkie would be too suspicious to be pathologically helpful.
You’d be wrong.
I’m the type to touch a hot stove, not because I want to get burned, but because I worry the stove has gotten a bad rap. I’ll get burned over and over because I simply can’t believe it wants to hurt me. (And by stoves, I mean people.)
I’d call it an occupational hazard, but it’s a Poppy Lewis hazard.
Sometimes, when I feel myself on the verge of giving in too much, of erasing yet another line I drew in pencil, I lie and tell people I have an urgent client matter, and then I pull up my favorite online forum and message Arrow.
And as the woman beside me talks on the phone and paces, encroaching more and more in my space, I do it now. I pull out my phone and let her fully push in front of me to spare us both the awkwardness of her pretending she didn’t notice she was cutting.
Problem solved!
I look at my messages and try to think of something dazzlingly clever, because Arrow is as sharp as his name.
(Arrow’s not his real name. People with healthy boundaries don’t share real names in online forums. I probably would have given him my real name the second time we messaged—along with my social security number and mother’s maiden name, just for funsies.
But Arrow doesn’t cross lines or test boundaries. Even if I sometimes wish he would.)
Where was I?
I stare at my phone, my finger hovering over apps. Oh, right, Beyond Justice.
I open the app, X out of the pop-up screens, navigate right past the main page, and go to our private message thread. Surprisingly, he’s on right now.
GreenArrow11
You’re crazy that you like airports. They are one of Dante’s circles of hell.
GracieLou
“What? But you like everything!” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
GreenArrow11
All right, sassy pants, that’s enough.
GracieLou
Oh, that’s right, you think everything is a circle of hell. I always get those two confused.
GreenArrow11
Not everything.
Just a lot of things.
Like lines. And mouth breathers. And people who grin at strangers like psychopaths.
GracieLou
Now you’re just being rude. You know I grin at strangers like a psychopath.
GreenArrow11
I guarantee you make it look good.
GracieLou
You can’t know that. For all you know, I’m balding and pick my teeth with a dagger.
GreenArrow11
Right. And?
GracieLou
Haha. You would make a terrible psychopath.
GreenArrow11
Now who’s being rude?
Is it because I’m the first person everyone would guess?
GracieLou
Nah. It’s the charming ones who are always the secret bad guys. The surly ones are always the secret softies.
GreenArrow11
Please don’t tell me you believe that. That screams “I’ll fix the bad boy.”
GracieLou
I don’t think that of anyone else. ;)
GreenArrow11
You probably shouldn’t think it of me, either.
But I appreciate that you do.
GracieLou
How are you feeling about going home for Christmas?
GreenArrow11
I’d rather stay in the airport.
What are you doing for the holidays?
GracieLou
Oh, nothing much. I’m going to see my dad.
GreenArrow11
That’s great. I’m glad you’re getting time with him.
I stare at his words, my throat tightening.
If only he knew.
Over the PA, the airline announces that we’re now boarding. And a second later, I get a message.
GreenArrow11
I won’t have service for a while. Be safe.
GracieLou
Thanks, Arrow. You, too. Don’t pick up any hitchhikers.
GreenArrow11
I’m flying. Shouldn’t be a problem.
Remember to double lock your doors.
GracieLou
I put my phone away.
As expected, he didn’t push me. He never pushes. He asks the occasional question but virtually always lets my answer stand. And because he’s so vague on specifics, it makes it easier for me to be vague.
It may be pathetic, but if I were going to confide in anyone, it would be him. He’s probably my closest friend, partly because of his respect for boundaries.
I’m a giver. He’s not a taker.
The freedom this gives me usually feels amazing.
But right now, I just feel alone.